


Heat

by Azrael



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry!John, Angst, Dirty Talk, Dom!John, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Masturbation, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining!Sherlock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Toys, fantasies, sub!Sherlock, very mild dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azrael/pseuds/Azrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John and sticky, sweaty sex on a hot night in London.  There's really no redeeming value whatsoever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlamoGirl80](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlamoGirl80/gifts).



> This is a gift for AlamoGirl80 for agreeing to embrace the crazy and become my new beta reader. It's also a procrastination technique to make me feel better about the slight writer's block I seem to be experiencing with my WIP: The Ballad of Sherlock Holmes. Let me know if you like it!

The sheets were damp, almost slick, and Sherlock could feel the edge of the top one sticking to the skin of his left ankle as the 800 threadcount made it feel like being shackled by wet silk. London in August was always a pressure cooker of heat and smog, turning the days heavy as an anvil to the head and the nights sticky and close. He felt his sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, dripping down his sides and making the hair at his groin and armpits moist and pungent. His naked skin felt flushed, the sub layers flooded with blood laced with desire and his breath caught in a gasp as John pushed into his body again and again and again.

John’s face was equally sweat soaked and strangely hazy above his own, his mouth open and glistening. Sherlock could see the way his tongue trembled in the huffing gasps of his breath as he pushed, pulled, pushed. His abdomen was flexing with the exertion and his shoulders and arms were taut and rigid with the effort of holding himself upright. He was a heartbreakingly beautiful sight and Sherlock dug the back of his head into his pillow, his neck an unbroken arch of longing, and moaned with abandon.

There was nobody to hear his indulgence since Mrs. Hudson was gone for the weekend to her sister’s house and so he did it again. Above him, John grinned and Sherlock felt an answering smile twist his lips before a particularly skillful thrust dissolved the expression into slack jawed yearning. John lowered himself close enough to kiss and whispered into Sherlock’s gasping mouth.

_Come on, love. Burn for me._

At his words Sherlock twisted his head to the side as if to escape and moaned low and deep, his voice wrecked and tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His hips undulated like ocean waves to meet John’s pelvis and a subtle ache began in his lower back, easily ignored. What was a little pain in the face of such overwhelming pleasure? Sherlock could feel it spiraling in his stomach and quickly clamped his thighs around John’s hips, stilling his movements and widening John’s eyes in surprise before they crinkled in frustrated amusement.

_Don’t want to end it yet, pet? Alright, but you asked for it._

John began a small pulsing shift of his hips that just barely rocked his length into Sherlock’s body. His inner walls felt bruised and sensitive and the renewed pleasure began to build slowly, coiling in his guts and hovering patiently, a luxurious ebb and flow, a tease. John’s shadowed face and dark blue eyes bored into Sherlock’s and glowed with love and desperation. Sherlock’s left hand clawed at the sheets as the moans spilled from his mouth at decadent volume.

**John, please, God, please…**

_Oh no, you wanted slow you’ll get slow. Just take it and know you’re mine. You’re always going to be mine and I’ll keep you safe, pet, love, Sherlock. My Sherlock._

**Yes, John, yours, always yours.**

The air in Sherlock’s bedroom was stiflingly hot and as John continued his torture, Sherlock had the passing thought that it was only the first of August and they’d be sure to combust before autumn ever came if all the foreseeable nights were to be like this. He could barely breathe, his lungs feeling crushed and his chest heaving with effort. How could he be expected to survive this night after night? Suddenly John’s cock twisted brutally as he swiveled his hips into Sherlock.

_Knock, knock. Am I boring you, pet? I could always stop you know. I’d hate for you to start thinking I’m tedious._

Sherlock moaned again, this time in distress.

**No! Don’t stop! Please…please…**

Above him, John laughed with joy and then pushed hard enough to hitch Sherlock an inch towards the headboard.

_Well, if you insist. You might want to hold onto something._

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the warning and he hastily threw up his left hand to brace against the headboard as John began to thrust again in earnest. The sounds of their lovemaking glided into the corners of the room, settling into the plaster and becoming memories. Sherlock’s fevered mind couldn’t help but catalog John’s every hitch of breath, every moan and clenching of teeth, every shudder that passed through the body pleasuring his own. The sounds and images painted themselves inside his eyelids and sank back into his brain to await permanent installation in John’s wing of the mind palace.

John added a small grind at the end of each thrust and Sherlock couldn’t keep the sob behind his teeth.

_You like that, do you? I’ll have to remember for next time._

Oh God, next time? How could there be a next time if Sherlock was so sure he wasn’t going to survive this time? The pleasure was coiling and twisting tighter and tighter in his middle and sending tendrils of shaky need out to his limbs all the way to toes and fingers. He was tossing his head left, right, left in utter abandon and had completely given up on choking back the humiliating noises rising like a leviathan from his chest. The feeling just built and built, towering and inexorable and Sherlock knew there was no escape. There would never be any escape for him.

Above him, John’s rhythm became a staccato as he hungrily devoured every flicker of agonized desire on Sherlock’s face. He was glorying in Sherlock’s pleasure-pain and fascinated by his loss of control.

_Yeah, yes, come on love. You’re going to come for me so hard and it’s going to be so good, I promise it will be so good. Just let go, yeah? Let go for me. I want to see you break._

Sherlock whimpered and tried to pull the pleasure back. He wasn’t ready for this to be over, not yet, but there was no turning back now. The waves became a storm became a tsunami and Sherlock could do nothing but hold his breath as he was rolled over and under in helpless ecstasy. The long line of his body arched off the bed and his ejaculate burst forth in ropy streams to coat his heaving chest with the evidence of his folly.

_There you go. There you are. Oh, oh yes, yes Sherlock, YES!_

Sherlock’s aching back slammed back down onto the sweat soaked mattress as he lowered his left hand, uncurled his right from his cock, and unbent his leg from where the heel of his foot was keeping the dildo in his still spasming hole. The piece of lubed silicone slid out of him and came to rest against his thigh as he tried to catch his breath and still his quivering limbs. With a sigh he rolled his head to look at where his alarm clock was glowing the unseemly hour of 2am and reached out a languid hand to switch off the space heater going full blast and turning his room into a sauna. Then he turned his face towards the ceiling and, slicked inside with sterile lubrication and wearing the cooling remains of his own emissions, he settled in to ride out his fading afterglow and begin the process of shutting his heart away. After all, there was nobody in the world who wanted it.

Outside his window, the snow continued to swirl in the hollow January night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's John's turn to pine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone who commented was so complimentary and then so devastated by the ending to chapter 1 that I just had to go back and turn my simple little oneshot gift fic into a chaptered fix it. AlamoGirl80 doesn't seem to mind.

John stormed into his room with such force that the door hit the wall and created a dent he would have to fix before Mrs. Hudson had a chance to see it. Sherlock was a complete bastard, he really was. He had a mind like a razor and a tongue twice as sharp. He’d just push and push and push until every line in the sand was obliterated and then he’d stroll away laughing in contempt at any fool left in his dust.

And John was the biggest fool of all to keep trailing after him like a kicked dog with nowhere else to go.

John turned and viciously slammed the door closed. A faint trickle of plaster dust fell through the weak April sunlight filtering through his curtains. He could feel his blood boiling in his temples and tried to calm down, tried to quell the mad beating of his heart before it seized in his chest from pure rage at his idiot flatmate. The last few months had seen Sherlock in rare form; insulting clients, insulting the Yarders, insulting John. It was as if he had completely lost his mind and was trying to push as many people away as he could in as short a time as possible. John was so angry and he was glad of it, the anger helped mask the hurt.

_I’d like to just tackle him and sit on him, watch him thrash until he’s as furious as I am. See how he likes it. I’d like to watch him struggle and realize how futile it is to fight me, watch the flush of humiliation and anger creep up his skin and make him burn. Yeah, that’d be excellent, just brilliant._

John could taste the adrenaline rising, feel it slam into his stomach and filter to his groin. He was hard from it, furious and bloody well excited from it. Sherlock could always do this to him; give him the rush, even at his absolute worst. John reached a hand down and ground it at the base of his cock through his jeans.

_Wrap a hand around the nape of his neck and push his face in the carpet. Sit on the small of his back and pin him good and fast. Feel him squirm and buck and fight me. Hear him growl and curse and beg. Yeah, beg me Sherlock. Beg me to stop then beg me to keep going._

**John let me up! Now, get off, get off me. John! John! Oh, no, yes, don’t, yes, please!**

_Lean back and push his cock, his hard cock into the rug until his eyes glisten with tears. He’d be beautiful like that; helpless and all for me. Yeah, that’d be a definite turn on. Oh, yeah._

He dragged his hand up his length through the denim, relishing the burn of friction. It wasn’t enough, but so good so he did it again and then again. At the next pass up he flicked his button free and then dragged down his zipper. He pulled the front of his pants down just under his bollocks and then licked his palm before putting it slick and warm back on his dick, imagining it was the heat of Sherlock’s lower back and practically feeling the fine weave of his stupid shirt sliding soft and brutal on the sensitive skin. Feeling the material begin to dampen with the detective’s sweat and get sticky and moist against him.

_Twist his arm behind his back and wrap a hand around his throat and pull back, just a little, just enough. The arch of it would be delicious. Shift my hips back and get my cock against his arse. Take my hand off his throat and get it beneath him to unzip, pull his trousers and pants down, get his arse bare, get my dick between his cheeks. Make him love it, make him moan, oh yes._

John’s hand began to move a little faster, then faster still, a grind at the base and a twist over the glans. The orgasm was starting to gather, but the fantasy was too good to let it fizzle out too quickly, so he slowed down a little, made it a tease.

_Get him crazy, make him gag for it, make him desperate. Hear his stupidly hot voice break like glass, all jagged and grinding. Yeah. That’d be just perfect. He’d be so pretty and perfect._

***moan* John, John, John, oh please, please more, yes, please, please fuck me!**

_No, no, don’t fuck him, don’t give him the satisfaction, don’t give him what he wants. He doesn’t bloody give a shit what anybody else wants, but he’d take what I’d fucking well give him and beg for more. Rut against his hole, let my head drag against it, he’d try to push back but I’d hold him down, twist his arm just a little tighter, let him know he can’t take control, he doesn’t have the power. I do, I will._

John rewet his palm and roughly grabbed at himself again. His hand was beginning to move faster without input from his brain. It wouldn’t be long now.

_Grind down, circle my hips into his arse, press against his hole and make him choke on his own air. Yes, yes, I’d come like that, all up his crack, keep thrusting through my orgasm, make him sob and gasp and practically cry with it. Make him shake with the need for it, for me. Then I’d scoop it up out of him and get a hand under his hips, get a my fist on his cock and wank him until he’s on the edge, until he’s not quite there and then…stop._

***hoarse cry of agony* What?! No! John, please don’t stop don’t do this to me, please, God! *sob***

_I’d laugh at him, yeah, he’d be so desperate and I’d just laugh. Let his arm free and grab his shoulder then roll him over on to his back. His legs would splay helplessly. He’d be so wide eyed and frantic and his cock would be so hard and shiny with my come. He’d put his hand on himself and use it as lube, use me to get off and he’d be so embarrassed, so ashamed. His face would blush all pink and lovely and he’d come like that and be stained with shame. That’d get him, that’d teach him, that’d bring him…bring him down…bring him down a peg…oh, oh, ungh!!! Sherlock!!!_

That’s how he came, leaning against his bedroom door, hand on his cock, orgasming to the image of Sherlock coming apart in abject humiliation, unable to help himself. The image was sweet and so, so satisfying. And as John gasped for breath and removed his hand from his oversensitive cock his head hit the wood behind him with a quiet thunk and he sighed. Yeah that’d be so good, it’d be stellar, but it’d never happen. Sherlock’d never let him, never want it, and something like that could break the sometimes fragile detective, could break them. And as crazy as the moron was making him, he couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t lose the best thing that had come along in forever. 

No, it would never happen and John should just get over this petty little infatuation and move on. Sherlock would never want it, never want him. John sighed again and pushed wearily from the door to start the arduous task of cleaning himself up and getting on with his day.

At the bottom of the stairs Sherlock was still shivering with his teeth sunken into the meat of his palm and pretending, always pretending that John’s little indulgences, his sighs and groans were to thoughts of him, from him. Then he slunk off to his room before he could get caught out slouching there with his dick out and his shirt soaked, knowing he’d give anything to be able to go up there and touch. Knowing he’d be anything John wanted him to be.

If only John wanted him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So FINALLY AlamoGirl80 and all the rest of you get some closure on this fic. I have no idea why you put up with me. Thanks for all the awesome comments, the kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions, and most of all thanks for reading my really quite filthy little story of pining!Sherlock and angry!John. Love you all! On with the show...

Sherlock trudged up the stairs to their flat and listened to John’s stomping feet behind him and held in a sigh. John was angry with him. Again. But what was he supposed to do? Just let a serial rapist and murderer get away? He’d had to run after the bastard or risk him kidnapping his next victim; Rebecca Marsden, whom he’d been stalking for three weeks. Rebecca had hired them privately when the Yarders had explained to her that they couldn’t do anything until David Thomas had actively attempted to harm her, which was unfailingly ridiculous. Sherlock and John had found the pattern that linked Thomas to three other victims, but Lestrade wasn’t answering his phone since he was in the middle of a high profile murder investigation of a dead television star. So John had gotten his gun and Sherlock had deduced Thomas’ hiding place and off they went.

Unfortunately, Thomas had realized they were there before they’d had a chance to effectively storm the man’s hiding place and started taking potshots at them. A lucky hit had grazed Sherlock’s left bicep and made it start to bleed. The wound was entirely superficial, but there had been a decent amount of blood and John had told Sherlock to stay put while he sneaked around to flank Thomas and take a non lethal shot. What John didn’t know, but Sherlock could see, was Thomas tracking John’s shadow on the wall behind him and leveling his gun to shoot through John’s cover of a ratty sofa. Sherlock’s brain had gone crystal clear and he had broken cover himself to rush the distracted killer, tackle him, disarm him, and cuff him in practically one movement.

Sherlock had felt rather smug about it right up until an ashen faced John ran up and assessed that Sherlock was in fact in one piece and not anymore shot than he already was. Sherlock had leveled him with one of his trademark half smiles and his eyes had held all the amusement and exhilaration he’d felt at the successful end to their case. To say John had been unamused was a gross understatement.

Now, John was letting his ire be known in the most gratuitous fashion imaginable, Sherlock was moodily thinking that it was a wonder people insisted he was the childish one, when John suddenly whirled and got right into his face.

“What the hell were you thinking jumping Thomas you idiot?! He could have shot you in the head!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John’s scowl got just that little bit darker.

“Well, he didn’t, and the arm graze is hardly worth mentioning, John. Really, you need to calm down before your blood pressure gets any higher.”

At that statement John honest to God _growled_ and Sherlock couldn’t help but widen his eyes and give a hitch of breath. John may have taken that small sound for slight fear, but Sherlock knew it was really arousal.

“Not worth mentioning? Really?”

And then John did the thing that would change their lives forever. He reached out, grabbed Sherlock’s arm over his wound, and _twisted._ Sherlock couldn’t help the cry of pain that slipped out nor stop himself from sliding to his knees to the floor before his flatmate. He turned his grimacing face up to John from that position…

And John’s pupils blew so wide that Sherlock’s head spun.

“Oh. Oh! John, you…do you? Do you want…”

John studied the pale face that was tilted up toward him, noticing the thin ring of aquamarine around a sea of black and swallowed hard. His voice was a hoarse rasp when he answered.

“Yeah, Sherlock. I definitely want.”

John reached out to smooth over Sherlock’s curls and the detective couldn’t help but close his eyes in blissful relief at those surgeon’s hands finally, _finally_ touching him with intent. The sound of John’s sharp intake of breath was the most thrilling thing he’d ever heard and made his stomach do an elevator swoop of anticipatory apprehension.

**Oh, God please, don’t take it back. Please don’t take it back and leave me like this. Just don’t leave me.**

Sherlock almost cringed at the desperation of his own inner monologue and tried to turn it into a shudder of desire. Unfortunately, John saw the flinch and immediately removed his hand from Sherlock’s hair with a stricken look in his eyes. He went to step back and Sherlock couldn’t stop the stab of overwhelming panic that lanced through his chest and into his throat. It nearly strangled him, making him cry out and lurch forward to grab at John’s hips and rub his right cheek against the suspiciously firm front of John’s trousers.

“No, don’t stop. Let me and I’ll just-”

Sherlock abruptly cut himself off as he opened his mouth over the stiff denim and let out a hot, gusting breath that dampened the material and forced it to outline John’s erection to even starker relief.

“Jesus, Sherlock, God, keep doing that and I’ll…Oh!...Christ I don’t know what I’ll do, but _look at you aren’t you gorgeous?”_

At the phrase torn right from his fantasies Sherlock moaned and positively writhed where he knelt on the floor at John’s feet as his doctor looked on in amazement.

“Fucking hell, you want this, really? Say you want this Sherlock, say it out loud or I’ll walk away right now you mad treasure of a complete and utter bastard. I swear if you’re playing with me I’ll make you regret ever being bo-“

“No! No, don’t walk away, please, I want this. I’ve wanted this. John, please.”

Sherlock was practically sobbing as he begged without shame or self consciousness now that he had chosen a course of action and committed to it. John gazed at him in wonder and couldn’t believe his luck. He had this beautiful, amazing man pleading on his knees and like hell was he going to waste this opportunity. His hand immediately clenched into inky strands and he yanked the dark head back and threw himself down to follow Sherlock’s momentum backwards and cover him with his smaller body. Sherlock was long, slender, and hard in his closely tailored trousers and John felt the fierce drive to possess filter through every pore of his being.

“Yeah, love, we’re definitely doing this and you’re going to love it. I’m going to ruin you until you never want anyone else, ever. You beautiful thing, you’re going to be mine aren’t you? Aren’t you?!”

Sherlock couldn’t help but press up and was completely unable to stop the loud moan from ripping out of his chest. His deep voice went to hoarse gravel as he cried out.

“Yes, John. I’m yours, I have been, I thought you didn’t want this, didn’t want me. You do, don’t you? Please, tell me if you do.”

It was John’s turn to groan and he practically dove into Sherlock’s mouth and turned their first kiss into a scorching, blazing thing before pressing wet, open mouthed kisses down the long, pale throat to growl into the hollow at the base.

“How could you not know I want you? Look at you, you’re brilliant, absolutely amazing, and so very lovely, aren’t you _pet.”_

Sherlock pressed up into John’s pelvis and bowed his back at the longed for endearment.

“Bed, now, my bed, my bedroom, please John, take me to bed.”

**Take me, keep me, anything, everything.**

John staggered to his feet, reaching down to haul Sherlock up, tearing the fine cloth of his designer shirt and sending two polished buttons pinging through the air towards the fireplace. The material gaped enticingly over the slim, leanly muscled chest and John felt a wash of heat suffuse his entire body at the sight of Sherlock in torn clothing and deliciously rumpled from his hands. The detective’s lips were red and glistening with John’s saliva and he lurched forward to close his own lips over that hot, gasping mouth and to push Sherlock towards the bedroom with hands wrapped bruising and hard around prominent hipbones. He pulled the detective along by his collar and felt himself go lightheaded when Sherlock moaned low in his throat. Jesus, but they were doing this, and if John had his say they would keep doing this until the sun burned itself out and they froze to death in the endless night. But for now they were going to catch fire together in the harsh July sunlight streaming through the windows. There would be no escape, no turning back, not for either of them.

_I’m going to make him beg. I’m going to make him beg me every night for the rest of our lives._

They stumbled through Sherlock’s bedroom door attached at the mouth and John practically climbed Sherlock like a tree and tipped him back and underneath him once again to land with a slight bounce on the wide bed made up with decadent sheets. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to make it that morning, which meant the duvet and top sheet were conveniently crumpled against the footboard, leaving an endless navy blue expanse for Sherlock to display his elegant limbs over. John sat back over Sherlock’s erection, grinding down a bit just to make the detective’s breath catch and to savor the veritable feast laid out before him. Sherlock’s hair was even more ridiculous than usual, ruffled from John’s harsh grip and sweat dampened at forehead and temples. The pale, defined chest was framed by the crushed and torn white shirt and John’s gaze traveled up a creamy neck decorated with an endearing constellation of beauty marks, past kiss reddened lips to read the frenzied desperation in wide, frantic eyes. The madman beneath him looked edible and John was going to eat him alive and enjoy every minute of it.

As for Sherlock, he wasn’t able to tear his blown gaze from the golden, flawed man above him in an effort to observe each tell and twitch that meant John wanted him. He read the lust in John’s face, the possessiveness in his eyes, and felt the dominance in the hard thighs that gripped his hips close. There was a throb of fear in Sherlock’s chest that mixed unpleasantly with the elation.

**This has to be more than one night. Please God or whatever could be listening, make him want me for more than this. Once won’t be enough. I can’t go back to before. I won’t be able to stand it.**

Then John smiled, all teeth, all predator, and Sherlock felt something painful uncoil and dissipate from within. It was written in every line of John’s face; he was never going to let Sherlock go now.

**Yes, oh yes.**

Sherlock felt an answering dark grin curve his lips.

**He wants me, he owns me, and he’s mine now.**

John reached down to his prize and ripped the rest of his lunatic’s shirt down the placket and yanked it back and down the pale arms to pointy elbows, trapping his newest, most dearest possession before attacking the button and zip on the black trousers and violently pulling them down endless legs, taking pants, socks and shoes to be tossed in a jumbled heap on the floor. Sherlock was a work of obscene art with the tattered remains of his shirt twisted in bindings around his arms and his pretty, flushed cock twitching against his flat stomach. With a blinding, knife edged grin, John unbuttoned his cuffs and top two buttons and stripped off jumper, shirt and vest in one smooth motion. Sherlock’s gaze immediately sought the washed out pink scar over John’s left shoulder and he looked with avarice at the gruesome reminder of the event that had brought his John to him.

John chuckled, amused and wry.

“Don’t worry, you can explore and analyze all you want later. For now you have much more immediate things to keep your attention.”

Sherlock’s natural need to push back reasserted itself now that he knew John was his.

“Oh, really? You’re awfully confident for someone who hasn’t bedded another man in, hmmm, five…no…seven years? Are you sure you can follow through?”

John’s white teeth made a reappearance as he laughed and stripped the rest of his clothes off with military efficiency.

“Oh, I’m sure my pet. By the end of this I’m going to make you _scream._ ”

With that parting volley, John put his right knee on the bed and reached down to thighs decorated with a light dusting of dark hair. Suddenly he tightened his grip to bruising and swiftly pushed Sherlock’s legs back towards his chest and ducked down to lick a wet stripe from arsehole to cockhead, making Sherlock arch and shout in surprised lust. John followed his momentum up the lithe body beneath him to slide his own prick in the smooth groove between curved buttocks and pumped his hips a few times, gliding his shaft over Sherlock’s hole and bumping the tip behind swollen, tightened bollocks.

“Oh yes, this is even better than I imagined it would be. You push me so far, just push until I can’t do anything but run off and imagine doing filthy things to you just to teach you a lesson about respect and boundaries. It’s either fantasize about fucking you raw and begging for it or killing you for real. Jesus Sherlock, the things I’ve done to you in my head, you should really be running very fast and very far away. Too late for that now though. I hope you realize it’s way to fucking late to back out, my pet.”

John delivered this speech while slowly dragging his mostly dry cock over Sherlock’s sensitive skin, causing heat and a slight pink flush to blossom over the sharp cheekbones.

“I listened to you. I sat at the bottom of the steps to your room and touched myself while listening to you. I’d come to the sound of you gasping while you came too and I’d wish you were thinking of me. But you were, weren’t you? What were you imagining?”

Sherlock was breathless from both the position he was bent into and the fervent anticipation flooding him as he asked to be told he was wanted. John knew exactly what reassurances Sherlock was looking for and let the detective’s knees slide down to the crooks of John’s elbows as he bent forward to intimately whisper his answer in a delicately flushed ear.

“Oh, I thought of all kinds of things. I thought of you on your knees gagging on my cock with your hands tied behind your back with my belt. I thought of turning you over my naked lap and spanking you until you came then making you rub your sore arse over me until I came too. I thought of putting you on hands and knees and fucking you mindless in the middle of a crime scene in front of half of the Met whenever you insulted me in front of them. I thought of tossing myself off and coming on your face in front of Molly every time you charmed her to get what you wanted and she looked at you in that insipid schoolgirl way of hers because _you are mine and I do not share!!_ ”

John was still rubbing his bare cock over Sherlock’s dry but clenching hole as he hissed the last of that statement in anger and frustration. Sherlock was so aroused at John’s words he was practically choking on his own tongue as he gasped with lust and relieved validation.

John licked up the side of Sherlock’s very tempting neck and began whispering again.

“But do you know what I thought of the most, pet? Do you want to know my favorite fantasy of you?”

Sherlock moaned loudly and as if he would die if he didn’t.

“Yes! Please, John, tell me, all of it!”

John grinned a shark’s smile into the dark temple at his lips to hear his lover’s desperate cries for reassurance and praise. Sherlock was so desperate to be told how John admired him; his intelligence, his beauty, his wit, all the time, and it made John feel a hundred feet tall to have this exquisitely bizarre creature so desperate for his approval that he would beg for it, crave it. Sherlock used John’s pleasure with him as a measuring stick of self worth it would seem, and as wrong as that was, John loved it. Who was he to deny them what they both needed? He started talking again.

“It starts out like today actually. It starts out exactly like today. We get home after you’ve done something stupid, or awful, or just thoughtless to one of our friends, and I am angry with you. I’m so very angry with you, pet, that I can barely breathe or see, can’t really think. All I know is that you need a lesson and I’m the only one who can give it to you. So I take you down, down to the floor and I twist your arms behind your back and pin you with my body so you can feel how hard I am. Can you feel how hard I am, love? Hm?”

John was still rhythmically pumping himself over Sherlock, catching the rim of the detective’s hole with the tip of his prick and sliding it all the way up to glide over the delicate skin of scrotum and cock. By this time there was enough precome expelled by the both of them to make the glide slippery and sensual. Both of them were breathing harshly, Sherlock’s face was red and he was so far gone he was keening softly in the back of his throat with every long thrust of the body on top of him. John, however, was maintaining an iron control, fascinated by the unraveling of the diamond mind beneath him at nothing more than his trite little fantasy. The power was delicious and he kept talking.

“Your head is turned, your cheek pressed to the carpet and I can see how surprised you are, but I can also see when you get turned on by the way that one pupil blows, excuse me, _dilates_ wide open. You try to throw me off, but it’s too late and now I know so I grind down again and again. You tell me to stop, then you beg me not to stop, then you plead with me, bargain even, for me to let you up so you can touch me, to let you participate, but I don’t. I just keep you there, rubbing off on you through our trousers and forcing you to grind down into the floor just to get any friction on your poor, hard cock.”

Sherlock’s voice was one long continuous whine of desperation at this point as he was so out of his mind with frantic pleasure he could focus on nothing but John’s words and cock. John could feel the testicles he was rubbing against start to firm and draw up and he wondered in gleeful fascination if he could actually get Sherlock to come just from his voice and a little frottage. He decided to find out.

“There you are, begging me, so pretty and wanton, such a good pet for me, and I just push up against your lovely arse again and again and again. Every stroke grinds you down into the carpet and it’s not enough for you, but it is for me. Oh, is it ever for me and I come so hard as I shout your name in your ear and you’re practically crying as you beg me to bring you off. You beg and you plead just like you will for me now, just like you will every time from now on. But that time, in my head, I don’t care how you beg, I don’t care for your tears or your need, no, I’m too angry, still too angry. So I get up, and as you call out for me I turn my back and _I walk away._ ”

At the culmination of John’s story Sherlock couldn’t hold it in anymore and John watched in amazement as his lover convulsed and came in long pulses over both of their chests with tears of intense pleasure streaming from his eyes. The amount of Sherlock’s emissions was frankly staggering and gave John an unholy, but truly wonderful idea. Sherlock was twitching in aftershock as John liberally coated the first two fingers of his left hand in Sherlock’s come and then slid them quickly into the still spasming hole beneath him and scissoring them wide. Sherlock’s eyes snapped wide open and he stared shocked and unseeing as John slicked up the first two fingers of his other hand and shoved them in beside the other two. John couldn’t help the throb in his groin as he gazed down at Sherlock, drowning black eyes dazed and hazy, skin flushed rosy and dewed with sweat and streaked with come, his cock still hard and his legs splayed wantonly with both of John’s tanned, square hands shoved between them.

_MINE_

The possessive thought was too much and John pulled away his hands, scooped the last of Sherlock’s come from his own chest and slathered it over his aching cock. Then he leaned forward, lined up, and brutally thrust home right up to Sherlock’s prostate and Sherlock _screamed_ as John smiled and set a punishing pace.

**Oh God, I can’t, I can’t, but I’m going to, he’s going to make me, he wants me to, he wants me to, HE WANTS ME**

Sherlock’s second orgasm took him mercilessly, and as his cock jerked drily he heard John’s roar as a hot pressure bloomed where John was pressed inside him. The satisfaction he felt was immense, both for his own pleasure and from being the catalyst for John’s satiation as well. John gently detached from his body and he let his legs fall, one hip popping painlessly, but gunshot loud, causing the two of them to giggle drunkenly with systems flooded with oxytocin. Both of them were heaving with their very pleasant exertions, sweaty and delighted at this new turn of events. It was too hot to hold each other, so they clasped hands in the center of the bed instead, turned face to face like lodestones and began whispering muggy and sweetly shy on the same pillow.

“When did you first…”

“How did you realize…”

They talked like that, answering each other’s questions and reassuring themselves that the other wasn’t going to walk away from this liaison intact or at all, that this was it for the both of them. They finally fell asleep like that, filthy and not caring among the blue sheets of their bed as the clock on the nightstand clicked over to midnight to officially start the first day of August.

It promised to be a scorcher.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Heat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473488) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




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